


Loo Time

by Secretbadass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sick Character, Vomiting, indigestion, inducing vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 16:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretbadass/pseuds/Secretbadass
Summary: Sherlock and John's lunch disagrees with them.





	Loo Time

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” John answered from behind his newspaper.

“I believe I need to vomit.”

At that the newspaper came down. John fixed his boyfriend with a bemused look. “Beg your pardon, love?”

“You heard me, John. I need to vomit. Throw up, hurl, upchuck, spew—”

“I know what the word means, you berk. My question is, why? Have you picked up a bug? Are you feeling ill?”

“Not a virus, no. But our lunch isn’t sitting well. I don’t seem to be able to digest it.”

John frowned. Now that he was looking closely, the detective did seem paler than usual. And now that he thought about it, his own stomach felt a bit off, too.

“It’s like a brick in my gut, John, just sitting there. My stomach keeps churning around it, but I’m not nauseated enough to actually vomit.”

At his words, John’s stomach gave an unpleasant swoop. Maybe there _had_ been something wrong with the fried chicken, after all. “Okay...there’s always the classic fingers-down-the-throat technique.”

“Odious, John. Not to mention invasive and unpleasant.”

“Yes, well, very little about vomiting is pleasant...except maybe the relief once it’s over.”

“This is not helping me with my problem, John.”

“Well, you could watch disgusting YouTube videos until you feel the urge to throw up.”

“Nothing disgusts me, John.” That was true enough. The only thing John had ever known the man to be repelled by was Kitty Riley.

The detective sighed. “Don’t you have any ipecac?”

“Why on earth would I have ipecac?”

“You’re a doctor; you're supposed to have a range of remedies on hand. It's in the job description.”

“It really isn't. Besides, using ipecac to induce vomiting is discouraged now. Ipecac itself is toxic. So I've not got any.”

“Then what is the _point_ of you?”

John tossed his newspaper aside. “You want me to help you puke? Fine. Stay right there.” He vanished into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a steaming mug. He handed it to the detective.

“Oh, that smells revolting, John. What is it?”

“Something revolting. Drink it down and I guarantee you will be seeing your lunch again very soon.”

Sherlock took a sip, grimacing. “Ugh. Must I really?”

“It’s that or fingers down the throat, mate. Your choice.” John moved away. The smell of the mustard-and-water was putting him off.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.” He pinched his nose and chugged the contents of the mug, then immediately gagged. “Oh. I see what you mean. My stomach feels hot.”

“Yeah, that's the irritant effect of the mustard. You should be seeing...results...in 15 to 20 minutes, if not sooner.”

“Ah. In that case, I have a few minutes to devote to my experiment.”

“I said _if not sooner_ , Sherlock. Which means that unless your experiment can be conducted in the loo, you should probably head there now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I know my transport.” Sherlock rose from his chair and made his way to the kitchen. He sat down and peered into his microscope.

John shook his head and began moving about the living room, tidying here and there. The smell of the mustard solution really was overpowering. He took the mug into the kitchen and rinsed it thoroughly, then opened a window to air out the flat.

His stomach roiled unpleasantly. John shook his head. What was the matter with him? He wasn't normally squeamish, but for some reason all this talk of vomit plus the smell of the mustard solution was getting to him. The fresh air from the window didn’t seem to be helping.

All at once there was a loud gurgling sound, and John looked down at his own gut in surprise. But no, that hadn’t come from him. He looked over at Sherlock, who had gone still, lips drained of colour.

“Right, loo time,” said John, recognizing the signs. He gathered the detective up and hustled him down the hall.

They made it just in time for Sherlock to double over in front of the toilet and lose his lunch in spectacular fashion. John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock’s back, his own stomach doing uneasy flips each time the detective retched. At last it was over and the fried chicken was but a memory.

Sherlock flushed the toilet, wiping his streaming eyes. “Ah...thank you, John. That was most effective. And as you said, the relief is quite marvellous. Though for the record, the mustard tasted even more repulsive on the way up than it did on the way down.”

Sherlock moved to the sink and rinsed his mouth. John swallowed back the saliva that was suddenly flooding his. “Delighted to have been of help,” he said thickly.

The detective made to leave, then turned back when John made no move to follow.

“John?”

John had gone ashen and one hand was braced against the toilet tank. “Be out in a minute, Sherlock.” His mouth flooded anew as his stomach gave a warning lurch. “I believe I need to vomit.”


End file.
